Of The Logic Of Magic
by mamazano
Summary: Jack and Will consult Sherlock on a matter of grave urgency. Part of the Museum series and one of the new adventures of the Immortal Captains, crossing  blades  paths with The Great Consulting Detective. Jack/Will, Sherlock/John. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

AN: A new crossover story between Sherlock BBC and PotC, written in collaboration with danglingdingle. To read the story, all you need to know is that Will is still the Captain of the Flying Dutchman, Jack found the FoY and is immortal too, and they both work for the British museum... and then, an adventure begins, leading Jack and Will to cross (blades) paths with the Great Consulting Detective and his partner in (crime) justice.

xx

Of The Logic Of Magic

xx

John Watson liked visiting the museum. After the daily tsunami that was Sherlock Holmes, the museum was a quiet, static, blessedly _still_ refuge.

Browsing through the exhibits for him was akin to practicing Zen (although John had to admit he had never attempted the latter). Perhaps this sense of calm and clearing of mind was what his flat mate achieved during his semi-catatonic states, when he would sit for hours, hands in prayerful poise.

John studied the panorama in front of him, a rendering of Pompeii, before its destruction. Yes, he reflected, Sherlock was much like Mount Vesuvius, not dormant, oh no… but brewing and bubbling, only to explode into burning excitement and action without a moment's warning.

Like this morning.

xx

John had returned from the mart and another frustrating bout with the Chip and Pin machine, only to find the flat awash in a sea of papers. A flurry in the corner turned out to be Sherlock, throwing papers over his shoulder and shouting wildly at each one of them.

"Forty-five minutes of absolute silence would be great, thank you!" The madman yelled over his shoulder, holding up a rumpled sheet in triumph, leaping over to the sofa, where he flung himself on his back, waving the paper in John's direction with his eyes closed, two nicotine patches peaking from under his sleeve.

With all seriousness, John contemplated throttling the man, but averted the fisticuffs by appointing his attention towards the groceries. Stomping as loudly as he possibly could, John tossed into the cupboards and the fridge the canned beans, milk, cabbage, the olives that Sherlock agreed, miraculously to eat, even while working, and shoved the chocolate ice cream in the freezer with the loudest bang he could muster.

Of course, he'd forgotten the artichokes.

Whistling out of tune, John strolled into the sitting room where Sherlock lay prone with his fingers in his ears, humming a monotone noise, the sheet of paper discarded on the floor.

Flinging his eyes open, Sherlock started up, glaring at John who could not but to shake his head with vague amusement.

"Would you hand me my violin? I can't think, I need to think, my mind is decaying!"

That was it. Retreating upstairs to his rooms would not help, as Sherlock plucking away tuneless croaks and shrills could be heard as clearly as if sitting in the same space with the man… If only it was one of those days Sherlock didn't long for the chaos to coincide with his mind, John would've sat down and listened, quiet, watching as the music seemed to come from Sherlock within.

Today, as the morning had bode, was not one of those days.

With great discomfiture, John sighed, reaching for the shiny wooden instrument, and planted it in Sherlock's expectant hand.

Then, he made to leave, offering an 'I'll be at the museum' by way of farewell. Receiving a distorted note from the violin for a response, John shut the door behind him, trying his damndest not to worry about Sherlock's state of mind.

xx

Rounding the corner, John found his way barred by an ornate sign announcing the new exhibit to be opening at the end of the month:

_"The __Bronze Age - A time at which smiths became metallurgists, makers of magic, heroes, and gods."_

It sounded intriguing, and John made a mental note to return the following month to tour it. Sherlock might even be interested, he giggled, noting the last line in the description:

_"Bronze Age smiths were often buried with the tools of their trade: hammers, an anvil, knives and molds."_

Nothing like digging up the past, or a dead body or two, to amuse his…

"Friend. No. Colleague."

John had not realized he'd spoken out loud until he heard a gravely voice ask, "Well, which is it then, mate?"

Turning, John came face to face with the most remarkable creature, a character who could have stepped straight from the pages of a kiddies book. A pirate, no doubt, judging from the bucket boots, tricorn hat and the colorful array of clothing.

"Come again?"

"Which is it, friend _or_ colleague? They're not the same, now are they?" At John's puzzled look the man sighed and explained, "A colleague's one of them chaps you work with, you know the type." The spectacle waved a dismissive hand and continued, "Someone to toss back a pint or two at the local pub with, or go out for a good nosh up. But a friend," with a grand gesture, the man poked John in the chest with two fingers. "_That__'__s_ a whole different story. He's that mate who has your back when you're so rat-arsed you can't crawl, and cleans you up after you've honked your brains out. And… _most_ importantly, still likes you come morning. So, Bob's your uncle." The man smiled, gold teeth glinting in the light.

"Um, yes. Quite."

"So, which is it?"

"Friend, I suppose."

"You can't 'suppose' a friend, mate!" The fantastical pirate pressed his palms together, eyes wide in horrified exasperation. "He either _is_ or he _isn__'__t_." He paused, glancing John from head to toe, then asked; "He _is_ a 'he', is he not?"

John nodded his head in agreement, amazed at finding another tsunami in his port of refuge. Glancing around, he found he'd wandered into the Legends of the Deep exhibit. Well, that explained the pirate, all right. But not his inordinate interest in John's mental ruminations…

"Not to forget!" The man lit up, John half expecting to find a light bulb glowing over his head. "_Partners_, now that's a whole other category entirely-" He was interrupted mid-sentence, leaving John with his head tilted in an incredulous question.

He didn't get an answer, nor was he to find out what the illustrious man was after, as they were suddenly inundated with a mob of primary school boys, all jostling for place in the queue, a flustered and red-faced chaperone doing her best to control them.

"Oops, time to go!" The pirate turned swiftly on his heels, his long frock coat swirling around him in a more than familiar fashion.

As if experiencing a déjà vu, John watched the coat and the man dash pell-mell across the crowded rotunda, shouting commandingly as he went;

"Oi! With me, gents! Look lively now!"

The boys all drew to attention and followed the pirate captain in an orderly fashion, their chaperone mouthing a silent "_Thank you_" to their guide, earning a wink in return.

_Uncanny resemblance_, John mused. Curious to find out more about the fellow, he decided to follow the tour at a discreet distance.

As it was, it turned out the pirate was the illustrious tour guide, Captain Jack Sparrow. John remembered reading about him in the papers a while back and the furor he'd created when the museum had tried to sack him. He certainly wasn't your average bloke, and his unscripted but highly entertaining commentary on the exhibit was both educating and enjoyable. Well, for most. There seemed to be a running disagreement between the captain and the chaperone over what constituted "truth".

"Now Mr. Sparrow…" the red-faced woman had ventured, for the third time in as many minutes.

"Captain, Captain Sparrow, if you please," the captain had cheerfully interrupted each time, ignoring the protests that he couldn't have possibly met a mermaid or actually been eaten by a Kraken.

"You know what's the matter with the world these days?" Sparrow had finally said, after the fourth interruption, turning to his audience with a sigh. "I'll tell you what, mates. There is no magic. Nothing is unexplained, nowhere is unexplored. There is nothing left to tantalize the imagination, cause men to sail across uncharted seas, to risk life and limb to discover unknown worlds."

He sighed, then pointed a finger at the closest boy. "You there, tell me, where would you find monsters and creatures of the deep?" The boy opened his mouth to respond but did not get a chance as the captain pressed on. "In those infernal video games you spend all you time playing. That is the draw, why you waste countless hours with those insufferable contraptions, hour after hour. Doing what? Trying to beat the giant sea creature! _There_ you find your magic, you elves and your leprechauns, your mermaids and your monsters. But back in the days of the tall ships! Back then the mysteries were alive! Every day, to be encountered."

He turned back to the diorama in front of him, depicting a ship being devoured by a tentacled sea creature. "Danger was real, was imminent, every day could be your last." Then, shrugging off his melancholy, he turned back with a wide smile. "But we have plenty of wonders around us now. Take this next exhibit, if you please."

The group of boys moved on to the next diorama depicting mermaids. Pointing at a large photograph, their guide announced, "I give you, the FeeJee Mermaid. Biggest hoax of the era." The boys all oohed at he hideous creature depicted.

"What is it?" Several asked in unison.

"It looks like a monster!" One boy exclaimed.

"It looks like Mrs. Beeman!" Another whispered to his classmate.

The boys all fell about in a bout of giggling.

"Boys! Control yourselves!" Their chaperone said sternly.

"Thank you. Now lads, listen to, er," Jack bent forward and peered at the woman's nametag. "Mrs. Beeman."

The giggling grew even louder.

"Oi! Shut it!"

The boys all fell silent at the captain's command.

"Now, as I was saying, this lovely lady here was the biggest hoax of the day." Jack frowned as the giggling threatened to erupt again, restoring order with a glare before continuing. "Thanks to this man here, P.T. Barnum." Jack pointed to the photo. "He knew from the start it was fake, and yet made a fortune off of the exhibition. And how was that, you might ask? Well, I'll tell you. It was 'cause he knew what was really important was not whether the mermaid was real or not. Just that the public _believed_ it to be real."

"Or, as the ol' saying goes," Jack grinned, "there's a sucker born every minute."

"Mr. Sparrow!"

"Now, if you'll follow me…" Sparrow's voice trailed off as the group moved away.

John remained in front of the exhibit, reflecting on the captain's words as he studied the hideous creature on display. He was right. Nowadays the creature would have been autopsied and analyzed, dissected and denounced. No more mysteries. Not with modern science at one's fingertips.

Perhaps this accounted for his need for danger, for excitement, for the rush of adrenaline he experienced when pursuing clues with Sherlock. For that moment in time at least, there was still a mystery to be discovered.

He moved on, and had just reached the end of the exhibit when he heard a horrifying cry and the crash of metal reverberated around him. Running towards the sound, he found himself hot on the heels of Mr. Sparrow, who cried out one single word in his heart wrenching panic;

"Will!"

xx

They reached the shambles of the fallen scaffolding at the same time.

Beneath the twisted metal, to John's horror, lay a white-faced man. "Let me through, I'm a doctor, I can help," John told the frantic man who was about to bend to lift the fallen workman. "Don't move him!"

With practiced movements, John placed two fingers to the young man's throat and his ear to his mouth. Detecting neither pulse nor breath, he shut his eyes, composing himself, and turned to the stricken man beside him.

As calmly as he could muster, John sought the eyes of the man who kneeled next to the lifeless body, gently placing a hand to his back before uttering apologetically; "I'm afraid he's dead."

"'S impossible," Jack said almost inaudibly, eyes sorrowful as he carefully brushed a stray curl from the dead man's face. "We just need to get him out of here. _Now_."

"The guards have been notified," John said softly, emphatic with the man's shock, suddenly understanding what he'd meant by partners… But life had to go on… "I'm sure the police will want to investigate."

"We can't let them take him," Sparrow said quietly, grabbing John's arm tightly. "You're John Watson, aren't you?"

"Why, yes, but how…What does it-"

"I've read your blog."

"Ah. Yes. Right." It was a perfectly adequate explanation.

"Is there somewhere we can take him? We can't let the coroner get a hold of him."

John looked Jack in the eye, trying to steady the man by holding his shoulders, striving to deliver the facts as delicately as he could. "I understand he's a _friend_ of yours, but it's standard procedure in accidents."

John looked around at the crowd forming. "I'm sorry," he whispered before standing up and gesturing to a guard. Eyes keen on Jack, he asked the guard that the area be cordoned off until the investigators arrived.

A hasty barrier was erected to shield the body from sight of the public.

"You don't understand, mate," Jack hissed under his breath, so the others wouldn't hear. "He's not dead."

"Sorry, what? I don't understand, come again?" Going through denial was one thing, but the fire in the man's pleading eyes spoke of something else entirely.

"_He'__s not dead_," Jack stressed each word. "We can't let him be taken to the coroner's, just like I said. You don't happen to know of somewhere we can take him? Somewhere discreet? Bloody anywhere!" Jack gave a quick look around, sheepish for having raised his voice. But there was no time for there shenanigans.

"I suppose we could take him to the mortuary at Barts." John pondered out loud, mostly just to calm the frantic Mr. Sparrow. "Molly would do anything Sherlock asked."

"Good man!" To John's utter astonishment, the previously grieving man flashed a wide, golden grin and clapped John on the shoulder, then jerked a finger at John, proceeding to bow with his palms pressed together. "I knew you could do it."

"But how do you suppose I can manage this? You don't think they will just release the body to me like that?"

"Call you friend, he'll know how." Jack smiled even wider, if possible, and added, "He_ is_ a friend, not a colleague. Am I right?"

"Right. Yes. Got it." Only momentarily wondering what it was about the man that compelled him into action, John sent a hurried text message to Sherlock.

_DEAD MAN WHO IS NOT DEAD. AT THE MUSEUM. IMPOSSIBLE. HURRY. JW_

Now, all he could do was hope Sherlock was arsed to reach his mobile and actually read the message…

xx

Molly held the door as the two men carried the body bag into the mortuary.

Dr. Watson had texted her earlier, saying there'd been an accident at the museum. '_That would account for the second man__'__s odd apparel… Must be one of those re-enactors_', Molly assumed.

This case had to be _dreadfully_ important for Sherlock to want the body brought here.

Usually she only handled corpses first vetted by the coroners, not a fresh kill.

Yes, this was highly unusual. But then, so was Sherlock. He hadn't been around the lab as much since he'd taken a flat mate. She'd just about given up on him, even had a boyfriend now. Yet her heart beat faster when she'd seen Sherlock earlier that day. She hated to admit it, but she missed him.

"Is Sherlock here?" John asked Molly, interrupting her thoughts as he glanced around the room.

"He's upstairs, I believe. At least he was when I took my lunch." She steadied her voice and asked casually, "Should I fetch him?"

"Let's get our friend out of here first," John said, gesturing to the bag on the table.

"Good day." The 'corpse' opened its eyes as Molly unzipped the body bag.

"Would you mind getting me out of this thing? It's damnably hot in here."

Molly's mouth worked soundlessly like a beached fish. Through the roaring in her ears before all went black, she heard Sherlock's languid voice from the doorway;

"You'd best catch her before she falls."

John immediately rushed over and caught Molly as she fainted dead away.

"How did you…"

"Pale skin, shallow breaths, light sheen on skin, all classic signs of someone about to faint." Sherlock smirked at John amiably, then frowned, amused. "Weren't you supposed to be the doctor here?" Grabbing Molly under her shoulders, Sherlock helped John with the dead weight of the woman. "There," he nodded towards another table. "Let's stick her over there, out of the way."

John checked Molly's vital signs after they gently laid her on the firm surface, Molly beginning to show signs of coming to. She'd be fine. Mental perhaps, having just had a corpse speaking to her, but her physical health would not suffer.

The 'corpse' in the meantime, was sitting up on the autopsy table, rubbing the back of his head and squinting in the bright, cold, white light of the morgue. His friend stood protectively beside him, a hand to the miraculously resurrected man's shoulder, while the other was nervously drumming on the hilt of his cutlass.

"You're Sherlock Holmes?" Jack asked, eyes narrowing as he took in the younger man's appearance.

"And you are Jack Sparrow. Tour guide at the Museum, sea captain at one time. Like to drink rum, recently been working on a ship. A sailing ship, probably a tall ship. Live in a flat with your lover, prefer walking to taking a cab. Recently been to America, Florida I would say, possibly the Keys. You are worried. Enough to stage this little accident. I gather your friend here needs to disappear for awhile."

"If I needed to disappear I could just go back to the _Dutchman_. No, we need your help on a matter." The corpse slipped off the table and offered a hand in a greeting. "Will Turner."

Sherlock ignored the extended hand.

"Rather an elaborate way to meet. You _could_ have just come around Baker Street."

"Can't, mate. Being watched," Jack shook his head determinately.

"By who?" John asked.

"Men, several of them," the older man stated, giving a glance in his partner's direction, their eyes meeting briefly, Jack's hand brushing Will's shoulder as if in encouragement.

"They want the map," Will finished the sentence Jack had started.

"Map. Map, of _course_." Sherlock sneered derisively. "Naturally, you two have uncovered a _very_ secret treasure map." Feigning enthusiasm, Sherlock clapped his hands together and brought them to his chest, then, as quickly dropping the act and continuing in an arrogant voice. "Really. Such a waste. You might have at least _tried_ to make this little performance _interesting_."

Jack started forward with a gleam of anger in his eyes but Will stopped him with a steady hand on his arm. "That's not all."

"Oh! There's more? How charming," Sherlock's voice dripped sarcasm, already heading back towards the door with an irritated wave of his hand, but was stopped by the allegedly dead man's hasty; "Wait!"

Pursing his lips and closing his eyes to gather the strength to play along with the idiotic charades, Sherlock turned as a man burdened with all the weight of the world.

What he saw, was something unexpected.

"They've taken my heart." Will pulled back the collar of his shirt to reveal an angry red line down his chest, the pale edges of the scar disclosing the wound being age old.

"Haven't you heard of Confucius?" Sherlock loosened his scarf while peering closer at the cicatrice. "'Wherever you go, go with all your heart?'"

Almost touching Will's skin, Sherlock's fingers hover over the scar, his voice dropping, betraying his interest piqued. "Wise words, you should've paid heed to them."


	2. Chapter 2

Of The Logic Of Magic - Part 2

xxx

The two men circled each other, frock coats swirling, hands waving expressively. Credit had to be given to Sherlock though, John conceded. He had waited until the utterly incredible tale of undead pirates and cursed treasures had been told, before erupting in a Vesuvian outburst.

"Facts! Data! That is what I need! You can stand there if you want, and talk about sea monsters and goddesses and magical boxes, but unless I have facts, I have no material to work with. My suggestion to you is to stop smoking whatever it is you're smoking and realize we are not part of your museum exhibit."

The contrast between the two was amazingly minor, despite the complete 18th century pirate garb. In fact, if John hadn't known better, he'd have sworn they were related by some obscure past branch of the family.

The "pirate" threw his hands up in disgust. "Forget it, mate. You obviously can't see beyond your own narrow mind to comprehend something that is unexplainable." Jack grimaced, then continued laconically. "Everything has to be explained, known, factored in and ticked off like some neat tidy row of sums. No, you'd have never survived a single day back in the age of magic. You're an even bigger arse than the Commodore was. Pity."

With a swirl of coattails Jack headed for the door, but was stopped by his partner's hand on his arm.

"No, wait Jack. Let me." Turning to Sherlock, Will took a breath and asked in an even tone, "Look, we came to you for help. Can you at _least_ listen to us?"

Sherlock glanced at Will, genuinely incredulous."What ever for? You're telling me you have no heart. No, wait. Let me get the _facts_ straight. You DO have a heart, only, it is locked away in this charmed chest. Oh! And let's not forget the curse and the sea goddess."

"But those _are_ the facts."

"WRONG! I'll tell you why it's wrong. You wouldn't be here, walking, talking, breathing, without a heart. Fact. The role of the heart is to pump oxygen-rich blood to every living cell in the body. Fact. In order to achieve its goal, it must continuously beat for a person's entire lifespan. Fact. Because of its vital role, a non-beating heart always results in death. In other words, without your heart, you'd be dead. Anatomy 101. Any fool knows that. Are you sure it's not your brain that went missing?"

Jack turned around with a menacing glare and came towards Sherlock, jabbing an accusing finger at him.

"You're even a bigger smart ass in person than you are on your website!" Like a caged panther, Jack began to circle Sherlock again. "So Mr. Great and Almighty Consulting Detective, I'll give you the bloody facts. Fact. What Will here told you is the truth. Fact. If we don't find the chest, Will life is in danger, because yes, he does need a bloody fucking heart to live, and that living heart is now being held for ransom by someone who is bartering for the map, or they are threatening to stab the heart. I, for bloody fucking one, am not going to allow that to happen, with or without your bloody fucking help. Savvy?"

Turning, he strode angrily towards the door. "Let's go, Will."

Will nodded curtly to Sherlock and John, then bowed politely to Molly, who was just coming around. Facing Jack, Will said tersely, "Right. I suppose it _is_ time for our leave. I'll meet you outside."

Without another word, Will turned and disappeared straight through the morgue's wall.

The only people in the room whose mouth weren't hanging open in disbelief were Jack, who only lifted his chin defiantly and left without so much as a by-your-leave, and

Molly, who, natural with gruesome sights and horrendous deaths, a professional, fainted away again.

xxx

"That was a bloody waste of time," Jack fumed as they made their way up the rear stairs towards the exit. "Fucking pompous prick, I could have…"

"Shhh," Will cautioned, suddenly alert, halting Jack in mid-step. "I heard something."

"Well, it wasn't the beating of your heart, now was it?" A unctuously soft voice asked from the alcove opposite them. "Put away your weapon, Mr. Sparrow. You have several high-powered guns pointed at you. I suggest you and your friend come quietly."

Jack, who had instinctively whirled around and drawn out his sword on the first word, slowly sheathed his cutlass. He studied the dapper man that stepped forward, a proper British gentleman, complete with bowler hat and an umbrella. "There, that's more like it," the man said with a small smile. "We can all act civilized, I am certain." He pointed out the side door of the hospital where a black sedan with darkly tinted windows sat waiting. "We are going to go for a little ride. I suggest the two of you come quietly, without a fuss."

Jack, who had no intention of going for a ride with anyone, let alone _this_ smarmy git, gave Will a sidelong look.

Nodding almost imperceptibly, Will coughed and paused, just long enough for the man to get within striking distance. Then, like a choreographed dance, Jack picked up a metal trash can and threw it at the man's knees, while Will swung a chair and launched it at his head. Then, as a team, they both somersaulted as the '_twing_' of a silenced bullet whizzed by their heads.

Dashing towards the exit, they detoured along a side corridor, and seeing a door, quickly dove inside. The sound of running footsteps passed, halted and finally, receded.

Taking the time to catch their breaths, Will looked around and nudged Jack in the ribs. They were in some sort of supply room, with several bins of clean laundry sat along with a rack of lab coats.

Quickly changing into scrubs and donning white coats, they bundled up their street clothes and stuffed them into a hamper. Then, with a quick look around, they slipped out into the corridor, transferred the wrapped up clothes onto a stretcher that was in the hall, and proceeded to push their "patient" towards the front exit. Reaching the crowded lobby, they quickly glanced for the black sedan, and not seeing it, signaled for a taxi, into which they bundled themselves and their 'patient'.

"How good are you at not getting followed?" Jack asked the cabby.

"'Bout as good as you'll find. Whut, you stealin' something?"

Will shook his head, lowering his voice for discretion. "No, but we did run into some unsavory gentlemen we owe money. Surely you understand."

"Fair 'nough. Where to, gents?"

Jack gave the taxi driver a set of directions, taking them first out of the city, then doubling back and circling towards their flat, only to find that a black sedan was parked on the curb several doors down from theirs.

"Well, aren't we just well and truly fucked," Jack brushed a weary hand over his face.

Will's mobile beeped suddenly, causing them both to jump.

_FINE. I__'__LL TAKE THE CASE. COME TO 221B BAKER STREET. SH_

A second message instantly followed the first.

_AND IGNORE MYCROFT. HE LOVES THE DRAMATIC._

"Is it a trap?" Will asked quietly.

Jack frowned at the mobile. "Only one way to find out, isn't there."

"We really don't have much choice." Will agreed, then grinned with a wink, "At least we know it worked."

Jack tapped on the cabby's shoulder. "Take us to 221B Baker Street."

"Gotcha" The cabby said, merging back into traffic.

"Better not," Jack muttered under his breath, leaning his head back and searching Will's hand in his own.

The rest of the way was traveled in tense silence, as the two immortals put all their hope in Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Again.


	3. Chapter 3

The two men paid the cab fare and glanced up and down the street. There was no sight of the black sedan, but neither of them let down their guard. One could never be too careful. Even if one couldn't die.

The door at 221B Baker Street was opened by a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh dear, has someone hurt themselves?" she asked, hand to mouth as she let in the two men dressed in hospital scrubs.

"No, no," Will reassured her. "We are friends of Sherlock. You know, from the hospital?"

"Oh, thank the saints!" she said, hand to heart. "You can never tell, with them chasing after those murderers like they do. You just go on up, dears. I'll make you some tea."

"Thank you, that would be kind…" Will started to say before Jack interrupted.

"You got any rum?" he asked bluntly.

Mrs. Hudson wasn't flustered a bit. "I'm sure I have something stronger in the cupboard, love. My husband was just like you, always wanting a bit of the hard stuff, instead of a nice cuppa." She patted Jack's arm and added cheerfully, "It's how I met Sherlock, you know. He made sure they had him executed. And not your tidy little hanging either." She leaned in and whispered to them, "This was in Florida. They use the electric chair there."

Will's hair on the back of his neck stood up as he watched the woman walk towards her own flat. "Won't be a moment!" she said cheerfully, waving them towards the stairs.

"A regular black widow," Jack remarked, as they climbed the stairs.

Will grinned. " I rather like her."

Their knock was answered by the John Watson who had attended Will when he fell.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked Will as they entered the flat.

"Yes, just had the wind knocked out of me," Will told him. "I'm perfectly fine, really."

"So that's how you eluded Mycroft. Clever." Sherlock said languidly from the sofa, eyeing their attire. "He was quite put out, you know."

"Bugger threatened us, got what he deserved," Jack groused. He hoisted the bundle he was carrying over his shoulder and asked, "May I use the head?"

" Of course, it's down the hall to the left." John cleared some paper off a chair and offered it to Will.

"I'd rather stand, thank you."

"You must be tired…no wait, you can't be tired because you're…DEAD!" Sherlock laughed at his own joke, with no one joining in.

"Oh, just shut it, will you?" Jack said irritably, joining the others and now garbed in his tour guide clothes. Tossing a pair of jeans and shirt to Will, he added, "If you're not going to take us seriously, mate, there's no sense in staying."

"But I do take you seriously," Sherlock said, sitting up abruptly. "Like that disappearing through the wall. How did you do that, I wonder? Must have been a trick. Perhaps you had this planned before you arrived, had a confederate to help you?"

Will sighed and turning, walked through the flat's door.

"Oh my goodness, you startled me!" They heard a muffled exclamation. "I was just bringing you…"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I can take that." The door opened and Will reentered, carrying a tea tray, a bottle of rum tucked under his arm.

"Right. Okay, not a planned trick." Sherlock's eyes scanned the man intently. "Well, at least you might let the doctor here examine you." Sherlock was obviously puzzled, but unwilling to concede defeat.

"Certainly, why not." Will pulled off the top of the scrubs, revealing a well-muscled chest down which a jagged scar was clearly visible.

John went and quickly retrieved his medical bag from his room upstairs. Out of the antique Gladstone bag, he removed his stethoscope. Breathing on the diaphragm briefly to warm it, he listened to Will's chest.

Jack was grinning rather manically from his position near the lintel of the fireplace.

Frowning, John glanced at the other man – who gave him an expectant look in return – before he took Will's wrist and felt for a pulse. Frowning harder still, he dropped the wrist and moved his hand up to Will's neck, pressing against the carotid artery. He picked up his stethoscope, with a huff of air, and listened again, - both front and back, his fingers lingering curiously at the faded but still visible lash marks.

Removing the stethoscope from his ears, he looked at Sherlock helplessly, "There is no heartbeat."

"Impossible, you must've done something wrong!" Sherlock sprang up, and stepping on and off the coffee table, came to where Will stood, arms folded, staring up at the ceiling with as much patience as he could muster. Sherlock placed an ear to Will's chest, listening intently whilst John glared at him with affronted dignity.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's impossible," he repeated, musing to himself. "You have no heart, yet you're alive and breathing. You walk through walls yet you are solid flesh and bone. It defies all logic, all laws of physics and physiology. Incredible. Like something out of a superhero comic, or one of those dreadful Bond flicks." As he mused he ran his hands along Will's body, arms, chest, trying to figure out the enigma in front of him.

Jack watched him with narrowed eyes. Sherlock was examining Will as one examines a prize race horse's conformation. All that was left was to look at his feet and in his mouth.

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Jack stepped between them with a possessive gesture and growled, "Now do you believe us, Mr. High and Mighty Consulting Detective?"

"If I remember, it was _you_ who came to_ me_ needing my help." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "I still contend it is a trick of some sort."

"Look, the tea's getting cold," John said, trying to defuse the situation. "I'll just see if we have any biscuits," he added, heading for the kitchen.

"No trick, mate," Jack huffed, folding his arms. "We're both immortal, we told you that, at least four times now."

"Immortal, hm? Shall we test your little theory, then?" Sherlock asked with a gleam in his eye. Rummaging around in a drawer, he pulled out John's gun, and turning, BANG, shot Jack in the chest, the dark haired man reeling backwards onto the floor.

John raced over to the form laying sprawled on the carpet. "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

"Testing a theory, obviously," Sherlock said coolly.

"OW! That hurt, goddammit!" said the body on the carpet. Sitting up, Jack groused, "Bloody watch where you're shooting! You nearly tore a hole in my jacket! This is VINTAGE, mate!"

Sherlock, smoking gun in hand, slowly sank onto the sofa. "That's not possible!" he protested. It was as if science and logic had deserted the building, and London entirely.

John cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the consulting detective. "You're the one who's always saying that, 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'"

"Yes, but," Sherlock waved a hand frantically in Will's direction. "He has no heart. Which means, by all the laws of science, that he's DEAD!"

Jack cocked his head to the side contemplatively and gave an impish grin. "More like Death when you really get down to it..."

"Jack!"

Will helped his partner up and turned to the stupefied Sherlock Holmes. "Now do you see the seriousness of our problem? Think of what might happen if the map falls into the wrong hands."

"Map? Excuse me, what map?" John asked.

"The map to the Fountain of Youth," Jack said matter-of-factly, brushing himself off. "The Aqua Vitae, the Waters of Life. – though they may not be so keen if they knew how bloody awful it tastes! - Call it whatever you want, the map points to it."

"Sorry, the fountain of youth?" John gave a snort. "You've got to be kidding."

"It makes sense that it would really exist." Sherlock sat back, an incredulous smile spreading across his face. "Tales of such a fountain have been recounted across the world for thousands of years, a legendary font that restores youth to those who drink from it. The indigenous peoples of the Caribbean during the Age of Exploration spoke of the restorative powers of the water in the mythical land of Bimini. Ponce de Leon sought this fabled land, only to die at the hands of those same peoples. Generations have sought it, all in vain."

"Not all, mate." Jack said, rather proudly.

"It doesn't just restore youth," Will explained. "Apparently, it makes the person who drinks from it immortal. Much like the Elixir of Life, the ultimate alchemy, the Philosopher's Stone."

"And you have a map to this?" John asked, incredulously.

Jack nodded. "That's why they want it."

"But who? Who are 'they'? Do you know?"

"Obviously something to do with Mycroft, if his antics are anything to go by. Did you REALLY throw a rubbish can at him?" Sherlock laughed. "That's absolutely brilliant! That alone is worth me taking this case on."

"I gather this Mycroft is that slimy git in the bowler hat," Jack said.

"Oh, don't disparage my dear brother. He'd be most hurt to think you didn't appreciate his little efforts."

"Threatening us with a gun? No, wait. Shooting at us with a gun? I wouldn't exactly call that 'little' effort." Jack grumbled. "And he's your bloody brother? Now why doesn't that surprise me."

"We're estranged."

"'S not all that's strange," Jack muttered.

Will decided to change the subject. "You wouldn't happen to have a beer, would you?" Will asked John, looking at his long-cold tea.

"Yes, in the fridge" John said. "Think I might join you."

Will opened the door and blinked. The disembodied head sitting inside did not. Shrugging he rummaged around and pulled out a couple of bottles, sinking wearily into a kitchen chair.

John joined him, moving aside some of the clutter that constituted Sherlock's last chemical experiment. He looked at the other man curiously. "I wouldn't expect you to be able to drink. Or eat, for that matter."

Will shrugged. "Habit."

"Ah."

Will looked out at the two men in the living room. "Is he…?"

"Yes, he's always like that."

"Mine too." Will smiled, more at the thought of Jack being 'his', than at his behavior. "How long have you two been…?"

"Oh! No, we're just flatmates," John hastily interrupted. "Friends. Colleagues, actually. No… friends." He amended, as if remembering the conversation he'd had earlier.

Will didn't comment, just glanced over at Jack and Sherlock, both as full of themselves as peacocks. At the moment they were eyeing each other like two recalcitrant terriers who'd been told to behave. Sherlock lay on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. Jack, fidgeting in his seat, finally took to wandering around the flat, picking up an object here and there and studying it aimlessly.

"I used to have a skull," Sherlock said indifferently, without looking. "Before Mrs. Hudson took it one day."

"Trifles," Jack said with a dismissive hand. "_I_ was a skeleton, once. That bloody bastard Barbossa ran me through with his cutlass. There I was, all bones in the moonlight. Bloody crazy. Was the curse, you know. The one we told you about. No wait, that was the other curse. This one made you immortal too, but you just couldn't enjoy it. Will insisted I return the coin. Good thing, too. Put a bullet right through the bastard's heart."

Sherlock stopped his contemplation of the plaster to look over at Jack. "Whose? Will's?"

"What? No! Hector's.. Mutinous bastard stole my ship, marooned me on an island and left me to die. Saved one bullet for him. Ten years I waited." Jack paused, then added bitterly, "Then that fucking bitch of a sea goddess went and brought him back. He wanted the map, but I outsmarted him." Jack turned with wide golden grin. "Course it weren't too hard, being Barbossa had less brains than that infernal monkey of his."

Sherlock sighed. "You are telling me you actually _were_ a real pirate?"

"Course I were real!" Jack jabbed a finger at him. "Found the font, drank the water. Don't you ever listen?"

Meanwhile John and Will were have their own conversation.

"One time, I got shot because Sherlock got us into a situation..."

"Really? Well, that's nothing. Thanks to Jack, *I* got my heart carved out and put in a magical chest!"

"THAT WAS NOT MY FAULT!" Jack and Sherlock shouted in unison.

They were all interrupted by a knock on the door. Jack immediately put a hand on the hilt of his sword, while Will rose and joined him. Mrs. Hudson's voice called out cheerfully, "Your takeaway's here, dears."

"Did you..?"

"I didn't…"

The door opened to reveal a dapper man in a bowler hat. He limped into the flat and said cheerfully, "I see you've taken on the case, Sherlock. How very convenient."


	4. Chapter 4

_The afternoon sun slanted through the warehouse skylight, dust motes dancing, illuminating the stacks of white plastic buckets, row upon row, each bearing the JM Enterprise logo and neatly labeled with a detailed list of its contents. Amidst the piles, perched on a wooden crate, as if it defying the systematic and logical order, sat an ornate and ancient metal chest. A faint sound emanated from it, the sound of a beating heart, echoing softly in the cavernous silence. _

_xxxx  
_

"Ah, Mycroft!" Sherlock said with disdain. "I don't remember inviting you."

Mycroft smiled coolly. "It's a matter of national security."

"Boring." Sherlock flopped back on the sofa, waving a dismissive hand.

Looking around the room, Mycroft addressed Jack and Will. "I believe you know something of this matter?"

"Where is it?" Jack growled, hand on his pistol.

Mycroft, who had seated himself without being asked, was carefully taking off his black gloves. "That was the question I was going to ask _you_. Before you and your friend chose to abscond." He winced and rubbed his shin.

"Chose?" Jack's eyes widened in disbelief. "You bloody shot at us!"

"Come, come," Mycroft said calmly. "We meant you no harm, really. Those were merely tranquilizer guns. We were hoping for you to come quietly."

Jack pulled his sword and took a menacing step towards the dapper man. "So ringing up wasn't good enough? You decided to collect us like some zoo creatures?"

"You wouldn't answer your mobile."

"Wait a minute," Will interrupted, a steadying hand on Jack's arm. Turning to Mycroft he asked, brow furrowed. "What do you mean, "ask us" about it? Don't you have it?"

"It? What?" John gave a puzzled look at the men.

"The chest. That infernal magic chest they keep babbling about," Sherlock said in a bored voice from the sofa.

"As a matter of fact, we do not," Mycroft told Will, with a smug smile at the disbelief on Jack's face. "As difficult as it may seem for your friend to believe, we are all on the same side."

"Then who does have it?" Jack was not going to let this go so easily. He brandished his cutlass at Mycroft.

Mycroft moved the point of the sword aside with a finger and sighed. "Mr. Sparrow, you are a leading expert in the field of marine archeology, are you not?"

Jack frowned. "What if I am?"

"Then you have heard of the Black Swan project?"

Sherlock sat up, suddenly no longer bored.

"Black Swan. Code name of the latest discovery of Janus Marine Enterprises."

"Janus Marine?" Will furrowed his brow. "I have heard that name before."

"You would have, working at the museum. They've had an ongoing dispute with Janus over their last salvaged wreck."

"Janus _had_ been cooperating closely with the Ministry of Defence on the project," Mycroft added. "At first, all activities at the site were conducted in accordance with protocols agreed with MOD and Royal Navy officials."

"What happened?" Will asked.

"Janus sought, and was granted, a judicial order in US courts, granting it possession and control of the site." Mycroft sighed. "Before it could be appealed, Janus salvagers managed to recover a vast treasure of silver and gold, and shipped it to the port of Gibraltar, which is a free port. From there they chartered a plane and had it secretly flown to the United States. We believe the treasure to be at an undisclosed location, probably somewhere near Janus' headquarters in Florida."

"And the chest?"

"No doubt with the rest of the treasure."

"Modern day pirates," Sherlock said. "You should be quite familiar with them." He gave Jack a pointed look.

Jack glared back and sheathed his sword. Turning to Mycroft, he pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. "Then how do you explain this," he asked, brandishing it under his nose.

The envelope was standard government issue, the contents inside on departmental letterhead. Mycroft's department.

_Dear Mr. Sparrow,_

_It has come to my attention that a certain item of interest to you and your partner has recently been discovered during a deep-sea exploration. I am sure you realize the significance of this find, and the consequences of it falling into the wrong hands. You will be contacted, at a discreet location and time, to make arrangements for its return, in exchange for a certain map in your possession._

_Mycroft Holmes_

Mycroft read the letter aloud and then studied the missive. "It's a forgery, that is not my signature." Sniffing, he folded it and handed it back to Jack. "When did you receive it?" he asked.

"Two days ago. It was delivered by hand to the museum."

"Then that explains this."

He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew another envelope, and handed to Jack. The familiar logo of the museum was stamped on the envelope.

There was no salutation. The message was short and to the point, scrawled across a single sheet of museum letterhead.

_The chest is no use to you. If you value your life, return it intact. I'll be in touch._

_J. Sparrow_

"That's not my writing. I have a better hand than that!" Jack protested.

Sherlock, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, swooped down on both men, eagerly taking the two letters and moving over to the window to examine them more closely in the light.

"You won't find any fingerprints," Mycroft said, "There's nothing to go on."

Sherlock ignored his brother, poring over the letters carefully with his hand lens. After several minutes he threw them both down on the table in disgust.

"Nothing. There is no way to extract any useful information after all the handling they've been through. Like letting a herd of cattle run through a crime scene."

"We can assume that they were sent by the same person," Mycroft offered. "Undoubtedly to put us at odds with one another."

"But why?" Sherlock sank back on the couch. "Why send them in the first place? If the culprit has the chest, why announce it to you?"


End file.
